The Trials Of Tym's Sanity
by THE LOON
Summary: This takes place before Harry was born, while Voldemort was at the peak of his power. A Muggle is nearly murdered by some Death Eaters, and then saved by the man who is her neighbor, the man she thought she knew.


The Trials of Tym's Sanity Rating: PG-13, for violence Summary: This takes place before Harry was born, while Voldemort was at the peak of his power. A Muggle is nearly murdered by some Death Eaters, and then saved by the man who is her neighbor, the man she thought she knew. Disclaimer: I own Tym and her neighbor, Peter. However, I do not own Voldemort, the term Death Eater, Muggle, and I do not own the magical world described here. Those all belong to J.K. Rowling. Notes: I'm feeling a little depressed right now, so this story is going to be a little dark. Also, this is my second fan fic, and I trying to put it in correct format and make it easier to read than my first.  
  
Where I should have died, I lived. And no one told me why.  
  
It was Peter who saved me. From them. From the ones in dark robes who cackled and pointed long sticks of wood at me. The ones who made me feel such absolute pain. And then Peter came, with his own stick, and he made them run. He made them stop cackling. He made the pain stop. It was like magic. Or maybe, just maybe, it was magic.  
  
I was outside, on the front porch of my small home, sitting on the raggedy old rocking chair, humming "The Merry Maiden And The Tar" from H.M.S. Pinafore. I was content. It was the beginning of summer, so I didn't need to worry about making up a new lesson plan for at least a month. I was the music teacher at the small public school in my small town in of Louisville, Kentucky. At twenty-seven, I was the youngest teacher there. Peter was sitting on his porch next door, reading Ender's Game, a book that fascinated him. It was the tenth time he'd read it. I knew, because Peter came over for dinner every Friday night, a tradition the two of us had established when I moved in two years before. He was thirty, quite alone, and he kept to himself. I knew no one in the neighborhood; he would talk to no one. It seemed like the perfect arrangement. We kept each other company those Friday nights.  
  
Anyway, I was sitting there, humming, content, at peace, the whole summer before me, setting me free from the woes of trying to teach music to a tone deaf kindergarten. Then I heard a large crack, and looked up to see five men had appeared from thin air in the street. They were dressed in long black robes, and were holding long polished sticks of wood in their hands. They were laughing and looking around. I didn't like the looks of them, and so got up to go inside, planning to lock the door. My movement must have attracted their attention, because they turned and smiled in a way I did not like. One pointed at me. Then, before I knew it, they were surrounding me.  
  
"Well, what have we here? She's quite a pretty little thing, isn't she boys?" said the leader with a sneer on his face. "I say we have a bit of fun before we make the kill." said another. At these words, I spun around and grabbed the doorknob, tugging desperately at it, trying to get it open so I could escape inside. But the leader said something and the door would not open. "Trying to run, little lady? Come come, that's not polite. You haven't even introduced yourself." the leader said smugly. "Get off my property." I said in a dead quiet voice. "That's a problem, sweetie, 'cause we like it here on your property. Tell me, what's your name?" said a smaller, wiry man. "I don't have to tell you anything." My voice was shaking now. "Oh really? Crucio!" the leader yelled. Instantly, I felt intense pain. Terrible pain. The world vanished, only the pain remained. The pain filled every pore of my being, like my bones were being slowly pulled out of my body one by one. I was screaming. Screaming so hard my throat was raw. And that added to the pain. I heard Peter, yelling words I couldn't understand, and I was wondering what he was doing here, what the men were going to do to him. And then the pain stopped, and the world came rushing back, and the men were gone. I was lying on the floor of my porch, two feet away from the rocking chair, and Peter was bending over me, holding his own stick of polished wood, concern in his eyes. "Tym? Tym, are you alright?" I had no idea what had just happened. 


End file.
